The Hunt Resumes
by Michael2
Summary: The year is 1060. Malcolm Canmore, King of the Scots, takes a break from the royal court to go on a hunting trip. Little did he know that he was the prey.


**Scotland, 1060 **

Malcolm Canmore, King of the Scots, sits on the saddle of his huge warhorse as he and his party trot though the forest that makes up the royal hunting grounds. The king is dressed in a simple tunic and cape, with a gold crown on his head; more formal attire is reserved when he is in court at Edinburgh, just a day's ride away.

Along with his hunting party are several vassals as well as men-at-arms. The king had been looking forward to this outing for quite some time. Ever since he slew that upstart Lulach, and was crowned King of the Scots, he had found that kingship was mostly reading reports and attending meetings with staff or vassals or the commanders of his forces. To be out here, under a starlit sky, wearing something much more comfortable than his court attire, is very much a relief.

"Shall we strike camp here, sire?" asks one of the guards, noticing the clearing. "It is the high ground and easily defended from man or beast."

"We'll need something to roast over the campfire, my servant," replies King Malcolm. "Like a wild boar." The king holds his crossbow, constructed by the finest artisans in Scotland at great expense.

"We shall secure this site, my lord," says the commander of the guards. "Happy hunting."

Malcolm and a few of the nobles ride out into the forest, together with two of the guards. They ride through the forest, making sure the campsite was still within sight.

"I hear something," says a Scottish baron.

Malcolm focuses his ears. He hears something stepping on the soil – and a snorting sound.

He looks around, until he sees a silhouette.

_Dinner time. _

He takes aim with his crossbow.

And suddenly he is knocked off his horse. He looks up and sees a blue creature, with wings and hair the color of hellfire.

"The demon!" he yells.

Instinctively, he fires the crossbow bolt at the demon's chest, hearing a shriek of pain.

"I'll take care of her, my liege!" yells a guard. He draws his sword to engage the creature in battle.

His face catches her spiked mace; the bones of the skull collapse inward. He falls down, unrecognizable.

Malcolm's escort is taken down after a few minutes, leaving him to face the demon alone.

"You," says the demon. "You betrayed me, destroyed my clan! I helped you get the throne. Without me, Macbeth would have had your head on a pike."

"And I should have trusted you after you betrayed Macbeth?" asks Malcolm Canmore, drawing his blade. "So why don't we skip to the part where I kill you? It will make for an excellent evening, even if all I eat tonight is salted pork."

The King of the Scots engages in melee combat with the demon. He puts his years of combat training from his English hosts to good use, dodging the swings of the mace. As he fights, he notices the demon is yielding ground.

_Yes! Soon there will be nowhere to retreat. _

Canmore continues pressing forward and forward. He prepares to strike a mortal blow at his longtime foe, complicit in the death of his father Duncan.

And then the demon swings her mace and knocks the sword out of his hand. She spreads her wings and launches herself at him, pinning him down to the forest floor.

"You," says the demon, her eyes glowing ruby red. "You wore the mask of the Hunter, so bear the scars that go with it!"

She raises her hand.

And then Malcolm Canmore screams an unearthly scream as the bony talons rake his face. The pain is so much worse than anything experienced either on Earth or in the deepest pits of Hell.

He prepares for the mortal blow that will end his life.

And then he hears the sound of crossbow bolts and the demon's shriek.

"I'll be back!" yells the demon before departing.

Malcolm hears voices even as his face is aflame in pain.

"The King is wounded!"

"Get some bandages now!"

"Yessir!"

And then the world slips away.

Ooooooooooooo

Seven months later 

King Malcolm Canmore looks at his bandaged face in the mirror as he sits in the tower of his castle in Edinburgh. Today the bandages are to come off.

"We've done all we could, my liege," says the royal physician.

The king recalls the treatment he had received since the demon clawed his face – various herbs applied to his wounds, along with concentrates of wine, an old remedy to clean wounds. He had not dared to look at his face unbandaged.

"What about sorcery?" asks the King of the Scots. "Can ye not cast a spell to restore my visage?"

"Nay, my lord," says the court mage. "I've not such a spell. We'd need intervention from Oberon, king of the faerie folk, for that – and Oberon's favor is hard to come by, even for a man of your station."

"We can remove the bandages slowly, Majesty," says the physician.

"No," says Canmore. He tugs on the bandages and pulls them off as fast as he can. The bandages falls to the stone floor.

He gets a clear look at his face. He recognizes it as his own.

And there are three diagonal scars, matching that of the Hunter's mask he once wore.

He traces a finger along the scars of his face.

"Let these scars be a mark of my vow," he says. "A vow to destroy the demon and her filthy kind. If I can not fulfill this vow, then my descendants shall!"


End file.
